


Paint Tomorrow Blue

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Great Depression, Ian being bipolar is implied but not discussed, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mickey in overalls, Oral Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 05:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: Someone was walking toward him. A young man, from the height and build. The sun was behind him, so Mickey couldn’t see his face. He had on a shapeless hat, and his hands were in his pockets.(1930s/Great Depression AU)





	Paint Tomorrow Blue

The sun was setting when Mickey came out of the house. He had enough tobacco to roll one more smoke. Maybe he’d even save half of it for Mandy.

It’d been a clear day. No storms. Not that it mattered now. There was nothing in the fields, nothing in the barn. A few hens in the coop out back, but none of them had laid anything for days.

They’d have to kill at least one next week, if they wanted to eat.

“He’ll figure something out,” Mandy had said. But Mickey wasn’t so sure anymore.

And Dad just kept drinking.

Where the liquor was coming from, they couldn’t figure. Anyway. It didn’t really matter.

Shit. He’d left his matches inside.

Mickey turned the rolled cigarette around in his fingers a few times, then he sighed and tucked it away in the front pocket of his overalls, and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a second. The last rays of the setting sun hit his face, warmed him. He thought about being a kid, the summers back when there was still rain, and money, and enough food every night that he never really thought about if he was hungry or not.

Inside, his dad’s voice was growing louder, and he could barely hear Mandy’s reply. He opened his eyes and looked out across the bare dirt of the empty fields.

Someone was walking toward him. A young man, from the height and build. The sun was behind him, so Mickey couldn’t see his face. He had on a shapeless hat, and his hands were in his pockets.

Mickey stood up straight, cautiously watching the stranger get closer and closer. His dad had a pistol under the bed, Army issue, loaded. But Mickey wouldn’t be able to get it in time. Anyway, the stranger looked skinny, even if he was tall. Mickey was pretty sure he could take him, if he had to. He spat on the ground.

The stranger was close enough now that Mickey could pick out his features. Red hair, under the hat. Freckles. His face was lean and hungry-looking, and his eyes were wide. Blue, or maybe green. There was a battered canvas bag slung over his shoulder, once white probably, but now a blotchy tan. His long-sleeved shirt showed inches of his wrists, and his blue jeans were faded, with a hole in one of the knees.

Mickey spat again, between his teeth.

“Close enough,” he said, and the stranger stopped. “What d’you want?” The stranger’s eyes dropped, and his eyes flicked up and down, studying Mickey, taking in his threadbare overalls, his thin undershirt, the dirt on him. Mickey shifted from foot to foot. “No food for you here. No money to steal either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What about a place to sleep?” the man said. His voice was nicer than Mickey had expected somehow. Calm. Friendly. “Just trying to get back on the rails, but I can’t walk any more today.”

“Don’t see how that’s my problem,” Mickey said.

The stranger smiled. “Never said it was,” he said. Then he tilted his head and offered Mickey his hand. “Gallagher.”

Mickey didn’t take it.

“There’s no one in the barn,” he said. Gallagher dropped his hand, looking confused. “If you stay quiet up in the loft, no one’ll know.”

Gallagher nodded slowly. “OK,” he said.

“Still don’t have any food,” Mickey said. Just to show he wasn’t some pushover.

“Fine,” Gallagher said. He looked amused, like he knew Mickey’s game exactly. “Not exactly the first time I’ve skipped supper.” He licked his lips. “Any water, though?”

Mickey pulled his eyes away and nodded curtly. “Tastes like the pump. Hasn’t killed any of us yet, though.” He rubbed a hand against his mouth. “I’ll, uh. I’ll bring it out to you. When they’re sleeping.”

“Thanks,” Gallagher said. The glint of amusement was back, and Mickey didn’t think he liked it much.

There was nothing else to say. Mickey turned and walked up the steps to the porch. He could feel Gallagher’s eyes heavy on him the whole time, and it took everything he had to not turn back around.

Mickey was starting to regret even talking to him now. Should have just ignored him. Gone inside and let him fend for himself.

Dad was sitting at the table, red-faced. Mandy was washing the dishes in the sink. One of the tin cups was already clean, and Mickey snagged it and filled it up from the bucket, so he wouldn’t have to later. Then he took a seat next to Dad.

“The fuck’s your problem,” Dad demanded as soon as he sat down.

Mickey took a gulp of the water to buy himself some time. It was cool, and his face felt hot.

“Nothing,” he said after he swallowed.

Dad grunted. “Grab the cards.”

Mickey’s heart sank. Sometimes Dad was tired after supper and just drank until he slept. Other times, he was in a good mood and wanted to stay up and beat Mickey at cards for a few hours. (Mickey knew better than to try to win.)

He stood up silently and went to get the cards from the table in the front room, trading a look with Mandy as he passed the sink. She was washing the plates for a third time—any excuse to keep out from under Dad’s eye for a few minutes.

When he got into the front room, Mickey stood at the window for a second. Then he reached out and twitched a corner of the faded curtain aside, looking out across the yard to the barn. It was almost dark outside now, a bright sliver of moon on the horizon, a few stars beginning to prick out.

He couldn’t see any movement outside. The barn looked quiet, abandoned. Maybe Gallagher had decide to move on, after all. Mickey dropped the curtain and picked up the deck of cards in its faded box with the bashed-in corners.

No reason to get excited.

Back in the kitchen, he put the cards in front of Dad and went to fill up the tin cup again. But this time, he left it on the counter, on the side nearest to the door.

Just in case.

 

He felt like a kid again, waiting for everyone else to be asleep before sneaking out. Everything outside looked eerie and pale in the moonlight. But he knew the yard like the back of his hand, and moved quietly around the pump, the old plough, the empty troughs. The metal cup of water was cool in his hand.

The barn was silent. Mickey walked to the ladder that led up to the loft, and balanced the cup on the highest step he could reach. Then he climbed up.

When he’d pulled himself into the loft, he stood uncertainly for a second, looking around. Moonlight spilled in from the little window at the far end of the loft, but he didn’t see Gallagher. There were still some bales of hay lined up along the wall, meant to feed cows and horses they no longer owned. Mickey grabbed the cup, then walked across the floor and looked behind the bales. Gallagher was lying there, dirty bag under his head as a pillow, arms crossed on his chest.

He wasn't sleeping, though. His eyes glittered as he looked at Mickey, standing there awkwardly. He looked hollow-cheeked and pale in the moonlight.

After a second, Mickey offered him the cup.

Gallagher sat up and looked at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. What did he want, Mickey to hand it to him on a silver platter?

Mickey’s heart was thudding painfully at the idea of having to get any closer, but he shuffled a few feet forward, hand still stretched out with the cup. After another second, Gallagher rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. He took a few steps toward Mickey, and Mickey fought the urge to back away. His eyes hit the bottom half of Gallagher’s face, then slid uneasily to the skin visible at the neck of his shirt, and finally jumped up to meet his gaze.

Gallagher was smiling, and it made Mickey want to turn tail and run, but before he could, Gallagher wrapped a hand around Mickey’s wrist and took the cup out of his hand. He brought it to his mouth, still looking right at Mickey, and swallowed, his throat working as he gulped the water down.

Mickey was staring—he knew he was staring. But he couldn't look away.

He wanted to yank his hand out of Gallagher’s grip. He wanted to—but his arm felt dead, like he’d been leaning on it too long. No nerves, no sensation, except the heat of Gallagher’s fingers.

Gallagher drained the cup and dropped it to the floor, then tried to tug Mickey closer.

“C’mon,” he said, coaxing, like Mickey was a skittish animal. Mickey dug in his heels, heart pounding, but he didn’t try to move away, either, and after a second, Gallagher stepped closer to him instead. Fingers still tight on Mickey’s wrist, he leaned in and brushed his lips up against Mickey’s cheek. Sweet, like some little kid on a lacy valentine.

Mickey let out a breath, loud in the silence of the barn. He could smell Gallagher’s sweat, he was so close. Gallagher moved his mouth down to Mickey’s neck, and the kiss that time lasted a while. Mickey’s eyes drifted shut. He could feel himself getting hard. He wanted Gallagher’s whole body pressed up against him, but he didn’t move.

Gallagher’s other hand reached out and rested on Mickey’s hipbone, his thumb rubbing circles through the worn denim. He let go of Mickey’s wrist, and slid his hand down until his fingers were pressed firm against Mickey’s ass.

This time when he pulled Mickey toward him, Mickey went.

He didn’t know where to put his hands, so he grabbed Gallagher’s shoulders. The cotton of his shirt was thin, and Mickey could feel the warmth of his skin through it, under his fingers. Gallagher thrust forward, rubbing himself against Mickey’s body as he squeezed his ass again. Gallagher was hard, too, under his clothes. Mickey felt a wave of heat in his stomach, and pushed forward to meet him.

Gallagher dragged his lips up Mickey’s throat and pressed quick, breathless kisses against his jaw. Mickey’s mouth was half open in anticipation of a kiss there too, but it didn’t come, and he moaned, his hands going down to the fly of Gallagher’s jeans before he knew what he was doing.

“Yeah,” Gallagher breathed. Mickey worked the buttons open as fast as his hands would let him, then unbuckled his overalls and pulled his shirt up, so Gallagher was pressed bare and hot up against Mickey’s stomach. Gallagher pulled Mickey close, then thrust once, twice, his head tipped back, his eyes closed, his mouth open.

Mickey’s eyes were fixed on Gallagher’s cock. His own was throbbing, too warm under the denim, but his attention was on Gallagher.

He remembered the first time he saw a man’s cock and thought of taking it in his mouth—a hired hand, pulling it out to take a piss behind the barn, the summer Mickey turned fifteen. He’d known better than to stare then, but there was nothing to stop him now, and he felt his mouth watering as a drop of wetness welled up at head of Gallagher’s cock.

Transfixed, Mickey sank to his knees, eyes still on that drop, one hand now gripping Gallagher’s hip to hold him in place, the other reaching out and cradling Gallagher’s cock for a second before he guided it to his mouth.

Bitter salt on his tongue, and Mickey wanted more, opening wide and feeling Gallagher slide in, hot and thick. He couldn’t take it all, and Gallagher didn’t push, just rocked back and forth in short little thrusts, letting Mickey lap and suck eagerly.

The wet, slick sound of Gallagher pushing in and out of his mouth was the only thing he could hear over the blood rushing in his head, and the motion of it lulled him, again and again, until he didn’t know how long it had been, just one long moment repeating over and over, but building higher and hotter inside him every time.

Mickey reached down with his free hand and pressed against his cock, and just that touch was enough to make him come with a choking gasp.

Gallagher’s hand, curled gently around the back of his neck, flexed hard as he moaned and came in a hot rush that Mickey didn’t even try to swallow, letting it flood his tongue and run out of his mouth, wet and warm and messy.

 

Mickey lay on the wood floor of the loft and stared up at the ceiling. There were gaps starting to show, slate tiles that had fallen off. He could see the stars through them.

Next to him, Gallagher blew out a thin stream of smoke. Mickey’s last cigarette, lit with Gallagher’s last match. He passed it over, and Mickey took it. Their fingers brushed, and he couldn't help the aftershock that shuddered through him. He tried to hide it, but Gallagher was so close, he didn’t know if he’d gotten away with it. He snuck a sideways look at Gallagher’s  face, but he was staring up at the ceiling, too.

“Pretty fucked, huh?” Gallagher said.

Mickey took a drag, the warmth of it spreading through him, and let it out.

“The fuck you talking about?” he said, but he was too relaxed to make it sound as threatening as he wanted.

“Your place,” Gallagher said, gesturing at the empty barn.

Mickey chewed his lip. They’d stopped talking about it out loud, him and Mandy. What else was there to say?

“Guess so,” he finally said. “The fuck do you care?”

Gallagher rolled onto his side and tucked one arm under his head. His eyes, wide in the darkness, were fixed on Mickey’s face. “You ever thought about leaving?” Gallagher asked.

Mickey didn't answer.

“Can’t,” he said at last, stubbing out the cigarette with a vicious twist.

Gallagher propped himself up on one elbow. “Why not?”

Mickey closed his eyes. “Just can't, that’s all.” He could feel Gallagher staring.

“I'm heading for California,” Gallagher said. “Orange trees, big groves of them, and it never fucking snows.”

“Yeah?” Mickey let out a breath. “What’re you gonna do when you get there?”

Gallagher was silent for a minute, and finally Mickey opened his eyes and turned to look at him. He was staring at Mickey's mouth, and his eyes were hungry. Longing.

“What?” Mickey said. He wasn’t blushing. But even if he had been, Gallagher wouldn’t have been able to see it in the dark.

“You should come with me.”

Mickey snorted. “I was that good, huh?”

“No!” Gallagher sounded flustered, and Mickey raised his eyebrows.

“No?”

“I mean—you were . . . That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Then what _did_ you mean, huh?” Mickey shot back, suddenly angry.

Gallagher didn’t say anything, looking nervous, and Mickey’s anger was gone as quick as it had come. He almost wanted to laugh.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” Mickey said. “How’d you know I wasn’t gonna come up here and kill you, hide your body in the hay? Christ, you don’t even know my fucking _name_ , do you?”

Gallagher shrugged. “So why don’t you tell me?”

Mickey hummed. “Why should I?” Gallagher grinned at that, and leaned a little closer. Mickey felt his breath catch.

“Because I asked real nice?” Gallagher said, and then he reached out and rubbed his thumb up under the edge of Mickey’s undershirt, against the bare skin where his dick had been less than an hour ago.

Mickey felt his breath start to quicken, and he knew Gallagher could feel it too. His dick stirred a little.

“It’s Mickey,” he said. “My name’s Mickey.” Gallagher pushed his hand up farther, until his thumb grazed Mickey’s nipple, and rubbed and rubbed at it. “What’s—”

“I’m Ian,” Gallagher said, staring at Mickey’s mouth, and before Mickey could say anything, Ian was leaning over him, kissing him, their tongues pushed together and both of them breathing hard.

Pulling away, Ian leaned his forehead against Mickey’s. “Please,” he whispered, sounding suddenly desperate. “Please, come with me, Mickey.”

Mickey swallowed, his head spinning in a funny way. Probably not enough to eat today. He’d had an orange once when he was kid, for Christmas one year before things got real bad. He remembered the citrus smell, the stinging juice burning his mouth, sweet and sticky.

“Yeah?” he said.

Ian nodded, his hand warm and solid on Mickey’s skin, holding him down. “It’ll be so good,” he murmured.

“My sister . . . ,” Mickey said. Somehow it felt like, by giving Ian the reason he couldn’t do it, he was already admitting that it was going to happen.

“She can leave, too,” Ian said. “There’s nothing here, Mickey. You gotta see that.”

Mickey huffed out a laugh. “Don’t think Mandy wants to be a drifter.”

“Isn’t there somewhere else, someone she can go to?” Ian said.

Mickey thought. “Our brother,” he said at last. “He’s in Chicago. But the train ticket’s more than we got. My dad, he keeps the money, he’ll never let her go.”

Ian’s eyes were wide and burning with excitement. “Mick,” he said, and it settled somewhere deep in Mickey’s chest, like an ember under a pile of ashes. “Mick, I’ve got some money.”

His heart was beating fast, but Mickey tried to keep his voice calm. “Yeah? Guess you really trust me, telling me that when I’ve got you all alone in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, his hand drifting back down to Mickey’s stomach again. “Guess I do.”

Before Mickey could think of a reply, Ian was kissing him dizzy again, and his hand was wrapping around Mickey’s cock, which pulsed and strained eagerly under his touch. Mickey couldn’t choke back the whimper that rose up in his throat, but when he felt Ian breaking off the kiss to grin, he didn’t mind so much.

With Ian’s hand hot and tight around him, already slicked up with come, Mickey came so hard and fast, he had little white bursts of light popping in the corners of his eyesight. Ian gave him one last squeeze, then pulled his hand out and wiped it clean on Mickey’s shirt.

“The fuck?” Mickey said, too loopy to sound as pissed as he wanted.

“These are the only clothes I’ve got,” Ian said. “You can change before we go.”

“Before we go?” Mickey echoed.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “We should go before anyone tries to stop you. Your dad.”

“Thought you were tired,” Mickey said. “Ain’t that why you stopped here in the first place?”

“Not anymore,” Ian said. “Could walk all night, the way I feel right now.” He grinned again and pressed a kiss against Mickey’s jaw, then his throat, his shoulder. “C’mon,” he whispered, his lips brushing Mickey’s skin. “Let’s go, Mick.”

“Okay,” Mickey said, before he could think, before he could talk himself out of it. If he stopped, he’d be here forever, him and Mandy waiting for the day their dad finally snapped, or starving by inches—even right now, he was so hungry, and Ian was so warm, pressed against him, the first good thing he’d felt since he could remember.

“Okay,” he said again, stronger this time.

Ian sat up and reached into his pack, all the way to the bottom. Rolled up in a sock, there was a little wad of bills. Mickey couldn’t see how many there were. Ian handed him a twenty and a five—“For the ticket and some food,” he said—and then carefully stowed the rest back in his pack.

Mickey stared at the wrinkled paper in his hand. “Ian,” he said slowly. “How the fuck did you get this much money? Why aren’t you—having tea with the fucking Rockefellers right now or something?”

Ian smiled. “Because I’m here with you,” he said. Mickey narrowed his eyes, because whatever that was, it wasn’t an answer, but before he could say anything else, Ian leaned forward and grabbed Mickey’s hands in both of his. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “All that matters is what we can do with it. Okay? So, go grab your stuff, take care of your sister. I’ll be here.” He gazed at Mickey, with a smile that almost made his stomach turn.

Mickey wanted to yell at him for being so stupid, trusting someone he just fucking met, flashing his cash around like some kind of easy mark. But the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and all he could do was nod.

Ian let go of his hands, and reached out to clasp a hand around the back of his neck instead, pulling him in for a kiss. Mickey’s body went loose and liquid under his touch.

When Ian finally let him go, Mickey shoved the money into his pocket and scrambled down the ladder without another word, buckling his overalls as he went. He crossed the darkened yard on unsteady legs, and eased the door to the kitchen open softly. He grabbed a burlap bag from under the kitchen table, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet.

He walked as softly as he could down the hall and pushed open the door to the room he’d shared with Mandy their whole lives, his mind whirring like some crazy machine. She was asleep, a scowl on her face like she was already angry at him without even knowing what he was doing. His first instinct was to drop the money next to her on the bed and get the hell out.

But he pictured her waking up without him there, no idea where he’d gone, just some cash on the bed . . .

He found a scrap of stained brown paper and a worn-down nub of a pencil buried in the piles of junk gathered around the room. FOR CHICAGO, he wrote, as clear as he could. Then, after a moment, ILL WRITE.

He wrapped the note around the money and tucked it under her hand. She stirred and frowned, but then settled again.

Mickey grabbed a shirt, his jacket, and his pocket knife and stuffed them all the sack. One of Dad’s rasping snores came through the wall, almost making him jump.

The gun.

Shit. It was risky. Might blow the whole thing up in his face before he so much as got out of the house. But if Ian was bankrolling them, it seemed like the least he could do to provide some protection.

He slipped into his dad’s room. The man was sprawled on his stomach, dead to the world. Mickey kneeled down and fished around under the bed. His hand closed on the grip of the gun almost immediately. Groping, he found the box of ammo next to it.

He stood, gun in hand, over the bed, and stared down at his dad. His hand was cold and sweaty.

He imagined Mandy again, waking up to their dad’s dead body. Imagined sitting in an electric chair, like a picture he'd seen in the paper, millions of volts of energy sizzling through his body, and a smell like frying bacon.

Mickey stuffed the gun and the ammo into the sack, and almost ran out of the house.

Out in the yard, it was colder than it had been, and the sky was beginning to lighten. Ian was standing outside the barn, his bag over his shoulder. He smiled when he saw Mickey.

They walked away from the house in silence, the first streaks of dawn breaking through the clouds above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Davina asked for a story with Mickey in overalls. (Three years ago.) (Sorry I'm late?) (Heh.)
> 
> I have some thoughts on where else this could go, but there would be a lot of angst on the way, and I just don't have it in me to put them through it, so for now, I prefer to let them walk off into the sunrise together. <3
> 
> (Oh, there's a song that goes with this! ["In the Lost and Found"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYlsQpJLAdw) by Elliott Smith.)


End file.
